


Pete and Beto

by Xirt



Category: US Presidential Campaign
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 18:52:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18834634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xirt/pseuds/Xirt
Summary: An unforgettable man walks through the door of the South Bend mayoral office of South Bend mayor Pete "mayor Pete" Buttigieg.





	Pete and Beto

Pete Buttigieg lazily swiveled his chair around to face the windows. From here, he could see the city stretching out to the horizon, the buildings fading into a carpet of trees. He watched the white, blue, and yellow flag of South Bend whipping around in the wind and checked his watch. Only 11:34. His next meeting (planning steps for his campaign after the announcement) wasn’t for over half an hour.

Pete was idly contemplating trying to get lunch before the meeting when a dulcet Texan voice penetrated his ears. “ _ Hola _ , Peter”, came the serious yet strangely playful tones of Beto O’Rourke. 

Pete turned. Beto was standing atop his desk, all 6 feet 4 of raw El Pasoan on full display—covered, of course, by a tasteful suit that could hide his body but never his twinkling smile. Beto crouched, his slim legs folding like the white tables Pete used during his monthly Mayor’s Night Outs.

“Congratulations on officially announcing your campaign,” Beto roughly purred. Pete blushed. “I didn’t see you come in, Robert.”, he replied. Suddenly, he reached up (quite a good distance) and grabbed Beto’s jacket. In a more serious tone, he continued, “But I know why you’re here. Let’s get on with it, or we’ll be here until 2054, when I reach the current age of the current president.”

Beto grinned and slid down from Pete’s hard wooden desk. He shrugged off his jacket, leaving Pete holding limp fabric, and gripped the shorter man’s muscular shoulders. Pete sank back into his plush mayoral throne, his perfectly groomed hair already out of line. His cable company, he reflected, could never make him unfree from his desire for Beto O’Rourke.

Beto descended to kiss Pete’s soft lips, but in a rapid movement like a bald eagle diving at communists, Pete was up, Beto was down, and they were both on the floor, Pete ready to devour him like he would a Norwegian book. He put his mouth to Beto’s ear and whispered “ La oss knulle.”

“Si.” 

Beto’s arms wrapped around him like lanky ropes. First their lips were passionately locked in tender love, then Pete’s tendinous fingers were undoing the buttons of Beto’s shirt, working their way up the long route to the thin neck of a middle-aged father with a sense of whimsy.

Running his eyes up Beto’s exposed bony bulk, Pete smiled. “Someone hasn’t been doing their eight mile runs.” Beto, always quick-witted, even off the table, slid his hand over Pete’s rock hard abdominal muscles. “That’s alright. I know you have.”

Peter Paul Montgomery Buttigieg licked Robert Francis O’Rourke’s leathery neck. It was a quick, moist, tender movement. Beto responded with a swift movement of his own moist mouthmuscle, running it down Pete’s chest as quickly as he could unbutton—and he could unbutton quickly. Beto was actually very proud of this. Nobody knew, except Amy—and he didn’t want to think of her right now—but Beto could have his shirt unbuttoned and off in under two seconds.

These skills quickly had Pete’s glistening pectorals exposed. As his hard working, down-to-earth Midwestern sweat glistened on his chiseled body, Beto got to work on his pants, exposing the muscular thighs of a man who served in Afghanistan because he wanted to serve our country. Soon, Mayor Pete was left in just his glorious boxers, custom made, proudly displaying the American flag in the front and the flag of the small Midwestern city whose renaissance he had singlehandedly brought about in the back.

Before Beto could go any further, Pete responded in kind—of course, he had already eliminated Beto’s shirt, but there were still crisp khakis, lovingly ironed (Pete didn’t think too hard about that), for his nimble mayoral fingers to unbutton, unzip, and slide down the excessively long legs of the table-loving Texan. This he did with his signature eloquence—though he didn’t speak, it was still apparent, and Beto could almost hear him expounding, vaguely yet gracefully, like a delicate mist, on his bold, youthful vision for the future.

Now, gracefully, but with the being of his Millennial flesh behind it, Pete’s hands played across Beto’s abdomen. He was not wearing anything so fancy as Pete’s patriotic undergarments—and now, as the muscular, nimble hands of a one-time concert pianist gripped the fabric that in turn gripped the almost-senator’s loins, he was not wearing anything at all.

Beto unfurled himself once more, fully nude, and stepped back, stepped up. Now, again, he was where he always wanted to be—atop a table. Amy had never understood his deep desire to make love atop a table, but Beto knew that Pete would just as well as Pete understood what America needed for a bright future. 

The shorter man followed Beto up onto his desk, his dark, typically neat hair now mildly disheveled and glistening with the same sweat that coated his muscles. Beto descended again to kiss Pete, and this time the playful grin of an ex-bass guitarist met the confident smile of a Maltese football lover and their faces mashed together with the passion of men who had fulfilled a dream of meeting their wet lips with, for Pete, a tall, affluent Texan, and for Beto, a short, eloquent Indianian.

Their flaming love twisted and flopped. Beto was atop a desk, Pete was atop a desk, and they were atop this desk together. It was ideal. Beto had been atop many a desk, done many things atop a desk (well, mostly speeches), but this was the best atop-a-desk experience he had ever had. And for Pete, who, as they sensually twisted, was only first experiencing the joys of being atop a table when, really, the ground would have done just fine, this was by far not only the best atop-a-desk experience he had ever had, but the best he had or would ever have. And, after, as Beto limbed his way off the desk, out the door, and out of Pete’s intimate life, he couldn’t help but feel as though, in 2054 (when he would reach the current age of the current president), he could not possibly have achieved the best possible future for America if it was not a future where he and Beto O’Rourke were one.


End file.
